


Grace

by ishibby



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishibby/pseuds/ishibby
Summary: Grace White, Lestrade's newest detective from America, joins Scotland Yard to start over in England after the death of her father. Little did she know, she would be working with the greatest consulting detective London's ever seen, while desperately trying not to fall in love with him. Eventual Johnlock Mycroft/OC. Slow burn, unrequited love, OC is a side character.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Original Female Character(s), Mycroft Holmes/Original Character, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Suitcase

“I’m breaking every rule letting you in here.”

“Yeah. Cos you need me.”

“Yes, I do. God help me.”

Despite himself, he knows Sherlock is right. Lestrade turns and walks away to lean against the wall, but leaves the man to work. 

“Dr. Watson!” Sherlock exclaims, gesturing to the body lying on the floor. It’s a woman, white, middle-aged, dressed from head-to-toe in a garish pink color. 

John steps forward, kneeling by the body. Sherlock joins him, looking at John, waiting for a response.

“What am I doing here?” John whispers, stealing a glance back at Lestrade.

“Helping me make a point.”

“I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent!”

“Yeah, this is more fun.”

“Fun?? There is a woman lying dead!”

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper”.

Annoyed, but nevertheless curious, John turns to the woman once again. Leaning in closer, he notices an off-putting scent and sniffs the air near her mouth briefly.

“Asphyxiation probably. Passed out, and choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her -- could’ve been a seizure, possibly drugs.”

“You know what it was, you’ve read the papers.”

“She’s one of the suicides. The fourth one.”

“Sherlock, two minutes I said. Need anything you’ve got,” Lestrade jumps in.

“Victim is in her late forties. Professional person going by her clothes -- I’d guess something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. She’s travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay for one night - that’s obvious from the size of her suitcase…” 

“Suitcase?”

“Suitcase, yes. She’s been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers, but none of them have known she was married…”

“For God’s sake. If you’re just making this up…”

“The wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding rings - state of her marriage, right there. The inside of the rings are shinier than the outside - that means they’re regularly removed; the only polishing they get is when she works them off her finger. It’s not for work - look at her nails, she doesn’t work with her hands - so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover - she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over time - so more likely a string of them. Simple!”

“Brilliant!” John exclaims, scribbling notes down on his notepad. Sherlock tilts his head to look at the man, thrown off for just a second by the interruption.

“Cardiff?” Lestrade asks, trying desperately to keep up with the story Sherlock has so easily deduced less than five minutes after entering the crime scene.

“Obvious, isn’t it?”

“Not obvious to me,” John says flatly.

“Dear God, what’s it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring. Her coat!”

Turning to look at her coat, the John and Lestrade seem confused. Just a Sherlock is about to explain (or rather show-off again), a voice interrupts.

“It’s wet.”

The three men all turn to the open doorway where a woman with long blonde hair stands.

“Must have been at least a few hours since she was in the rain given that it’s still wet, but not soaked. It hasn’t been raining in London, though.”

“Yes,” Sherlock states plainly. “You are? I feel like I would have noticed you given you are seemingly so keen to interrupt.”

“Down, Sherlock. This is our newest detective at Scotland Yard, Grace White. Grace, this is Sherlock Holmes and his associate John Watson. Sherlock is a...third-party detective we consult for cases that require a certain...special hand,” Lestrade explains choosing his words carefully. “This is Dr. Watson’s first case.”

“American.”

“Yes, I’ve just moved to London last week. It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock,” Grace moves to shake his hand but lowers it when it isn’t returned. “You as well, Dr. Watson”.

“Yes, of course - a pleasure,” John reaches for her hand, shaking it, but not before giving her a look once over. He couldn’t help but be drawn in by an attractive female, perhaps too frequently as some of his friends would say, and he wasn’t sure whether to steal glances at her or keep his attention on Sherlock, who was growing increasingly irritated at the interruption.

“I’m sorry. Please, go on,” Grace gestures to the body.

“Yes, well. Under her coat collar is damp as well. She turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left pocket but it’s unused and dry. Not just wind, strong wind - too strong to use her umbrella.” Sherlocks begin to pace the room. “We know from her suitcase that she’s staying over night so she must have a come a decent distance. But she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours, cos her coat hasn’t dried.” He nods to the woman who has since moved from the doorway to stand beside Lestrade. “So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff,” he finishes, holding up his PDA to John and Lestrade.

“Fantastic!” John exclaims, once again.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock questions, trying not to look pleased.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock hides a small smile.

“Why do you keep saying suitcase?” Lestrade chimes in.

“Yeah, where is it? She must have a phone or an organiser - we can find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing ‘Rachel’?” Lestrade gestures to where ‘RACHE’ is etched into the ground beside the body.

“No, she was leaving an angry note in German - of course she was writing Rachel. No other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait till she was dying to write it…”

“How do you know she had a case?”

“Back of her right leg. Tiny splashes on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her, with her right hand - you don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag. So we know she was staying one night. Now where is it - what have you done with it?”

“There wasn’t a case,” Grace explains. “We’ve searched the whole building.”

Ignoring her, Sherlock turns to Lestrade. “The case. Where is it?”

“There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase here,” Lestrade says, exasperated, as Sherlock pushes past him and down the stairs.

“Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase - was there a suitcase in this house?” Sherlock calls out to the other forensic officers.

“Sherlock, there was no case,” Lestrade repeats as he, John and Grace follow him down the stairs.

“But they take the poison themselves. They chew and swallow the pills themselves, there are clear signs - even you lot couldn’t miss them,” Sherlock spells out, waving his hand in the air in the direction of Lestrade and Grace.

“Right, yes, thanks - and?”

“It’s murder,” Sherlock continues, “All of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings - serial killings. We’ve got a serial killer. Love those, there’s always something to look forward to.”

“Why? Why are you saying that?”

“Where’s her case? Come on, where is it? Did she eat it? Someone else was here - and they took the case. So the killer must have driven her here - forgot the case was in the car…”

“Maybe she checked into her hotel, left her case there,” John suggests.

“She never made it to her hotel Look at her hair - colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she’d never have left a hotel with her hair still like…” He stops. “Oh! Oh…” 

“Sherlock?”

“What? What is it, what?” Lestrade asks impatiently.

“Serial killers, always hard. You’ve got to wait for them to make a mistake…”

“We can’t just wait!” Lestrade yells, becoming more and more tired with the game Sherlock is playing.

“Oh, we’re done waiting. Look at her! Really, look! Houston,” Sherlock shouts, turning to look pointedly at Grace, “We have a mistake! Get on to Cardiff, find Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends - find Rachel.”

“Of course, yes. But what mistake?” Lestrade asks again, trying to push a comprehensible answer from the detective who he could have sworn had gone mad, if he wasn’t already before.

“Pink!” Sherlock and Grace exclaim at the same time. Sherlock slams the door on his way out and Grace turns to look excitedly at Lestrade.

“Pink?”

“The suitcase!” she continues, “Look at the body - dressed head-to-toe in that horrible pink color. Her dress, her shoes, her coat, even her lipstick...it’s all pink! Wouldn’t it only make sense that her suitcase be pink as well?”

“Yes, but where would we begin to look?”

“I have a feeling we don’t have to,” she nods to the door, intrigued by the tall detective with the curly hair and the long black coat.


	2. The Flat

Chapter 2: The Flat

"It was nice meeting you," John starts, extending his hand to Grace.

"Perhaps we will be seeing more of each other, Dr. Watson. It sounds like Sherlock won't be giving up on this case just yet."

"I would like that, but I don't know if I will be continuing as well."

"Why not?"

"I've just met the man. A mutual friend introduced us - we were supposed to just be flatmates, not crime-solving partners or anything like that."

"Well it seems like he enjoyed the company."

"Enjoyed the company? I've only just met him but he doesn't seem like one to enjoy the company of others."

"I don't know, I could tell he was pleased with your compliments," Grace smiles. "By the way, you said you were looking for an apartment, sorry, flat with Sherlock right?"

"Yes, but he's dragged me to this crime scene just after meeting him. I haven't even had the chance to look at the place yet."

"Ah, I see. Well, I just landed in London last week. I've been staying at Greg's - he was an old friend of my father's - but I've got to get out of his hair at some point. If your landlord has any other openings, I'd appreciate if you let me know. I have no idea where to even start looking and it's so hard to find a nice place in a new city."

"Yeah, of course. I'll hopefully know if I'll be seeing the place soon, if Sherlock ever comes back from his suitcase hunt. How should I reach you?"

"Here," she stops to write down a phone number and the name 'Grace White' on a piece of paper. Smiling, she hands the paper to him, "My contact information."

"He's gone," another woman interrupts.

"Ah, Sally. Yes - we saw him leave earlier. He's off to look for a pink suitcase. Thinks it's the key to finding the killer, and I'm apt to believe him, seeing as Lestrade has said he's been right so many times before."

"Bit of advice. Stay away from that guy. Both of you."

"Why?" John asks.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. Weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

John stares at her, appalled at the idea. "Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored," she says matter-of-factly.

"Donovan!" Lestrade calls, and Sally turns to walk away, but not before warning, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

John and Grace share a look. Breaking the silence, she says, "Seems kind of dramatic. I haven't been here too long, but I'm starting to tell which ones in the department are the realists and which are the conspiracy theorists." Grace nods over to inspectors Donovan and Anderson.

"I hope you're right," John chuckles awkwardly, mind drifting to his new flatmate.

"Me too," she nods. "Well, I'll see you around then?"

"Yes, see you," John smiles and begins to limp away down the street towards the upcoming cab.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

221B Baker Street

John and Sherlock step into the room and look around. The room is fairly large and well furnished, but a giant mess. Newspapers, books, an assortment of weapons and research materials scatter every surface of the flat. A skull sits on the mantelpiece.

"Well! This could be very nice. Very nice indeed. Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out," John notes.

"I went ahead and moved in," explains Sherlock.

"So, this is all…"

"Obviously I can straighten things up a bit."

"What do you think, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson, a bubbling older lady asks excitedly. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms…"

"Well of course we'll be needing two," John insists, flustered.

"Oh don't you worry, all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones," she lowers her voice.

"Yes, well, we will be needing two bedrooms," John tries to change the subject. "Actually, do you have another flat that's open?"

"Well, yes, 221C is open, but I thought you two were going to be living together here in 221B. I've only prepared the one flat, you see, the other needs a bit of clean up. No one has really wanted to take it before."

Sherlock turns to look at John. "I thought you were looking for a flatmate."

"I am," he reassures both of them. "I was asking for a friend. Detective White asked me to see if there were any other openings."

"Detective White?"

"Grace, from Scotland Yard."

"Oh, her," Sherlock looks bored. "You aren't already trying to move in with the woman John, you barely met her."

"I've barely met you, Sherlock. And no, I still want to move in 221B. I'm just doing her a favor."

"Hmm...then you'll take it? The other room."

"Yes, I will."

"Oh, wonderful!" Mrs. Hudson beams. "This will be good for you Sherlock, having someone around to keep you company. You know, he's always off getting in trouble, never eating or stopping to take a break. You ought to help him with that, John, you seem more the sitting down type, I can tell."

John looks down at his leg. "Well, yes, I suppose I should sit down for a bit," John says dejectedly as he moves to sit down in the black chair on the right.

"That's my chair," Sherlock commands.

"Yes, right." John moves to the chair on the left. "This one is nicer anyway."

The sound of footsteps interrupts his thought as two individuals begin to ascend the stairs to 221B. Sherlock turns to the door. "Where?"

"Brixton. Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade says, not missing a beat.

Grace behind him, greets them, "Hello again Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson." John nods.

Ignoring the greeting, Sherlock asks Lestrade, "What's different about this one. You wouldn't have come to get me, if there wasn't something new."

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on Forensics?"

"Anderson."

"Anderson won't work with me."

"He won't be your assistant."

"But I need an assistant."

"Will you come?" Lestrade asks again, not keen to wasting any additional time.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind you."

"Thank you!" Lestrade nods to Mrs. Hudson and John before leaving.

"See you both there I presume," she smiles at John. Nice to meet you Mrs. Hudson - perhaps we can meet again under better circumstances."

"Yes, dear, that sounds nice. I'm guessing you're Detective White? John mentioned you were looking for a room. Do come by again, I'll clean up the extra flat downstairs and you can take a look."

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate it. I really must head out now, but see you boys at the Gardens." After one last wave to Mrs. Hudson, Grace heads after Lestrade.

"Yes, yes. Why that woman loves to interrupt," Sherlock laments, annoyed.

"Why do you dislike her so much?" John asks, confused.

"She is ordinary. Thus she is annoying. I deal with enough annoying ordinary people as is. Now, John, I must see myself out," the taller of the men turns to the door. "And I thought it was going to be a boring evening. Serial suicides, and now a note - oh, it's Christmas!"

Seeing Sherlock leave, John sinks lower into his chair with a sigh. After just 30 seconds, Sherlock pops back in. "You're a doctor".

John looks up to face Sherlock standing back at the door, "Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths?"

"Well, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes!"


	3. The Bust

**Chapter 3: The Bust **

_**221 Baker Street - 1 week later** _

"Yes, dear, just down this way," Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs ushering Grace down to the basement flat below 221B.

"Thanks so much for getting this together for me so quickly, Mrs. Hudson. It's been so difficult trying to find a new apartment, um, flat, while starting work at the Yard," Grace explains, following Mrs. Hudson down the stairs. "I don't want to put Greg out for too long, though. He's really been so helpful - an angel really."

"No problem at all, dear. That Detective Lestrade is a good man, I can tell. Always helping keep Sherlock busy so he isn't sitting around destroying my walls or getting into some other trouble," Mrs. Hudson replies, reaching into her pocket for the keys to the flat and opening the door before waving Grace inside.

"You know, the other day he was making such a fuss that Sherlock, yelling something about trying to find a suitcase and that it had to be pink, not magenta, for some odd reason. Who knows what goes on in that head of his," she explains, waving her hand in the air, mimicking Sherlock's unpredictable movements.

Grace laughs, "He's been looking into one of our most recent cases. Seems like he'll be helping out on a lot more after, too. I guess I have a very lively living arrangement to look forward to living underneath him and John."

"Yes, I suppose, dear, but are you sure you want to be leaving Detective Lestrade's so quickly? I mean I'm glad to finally be able to rent out this extra flat, but I'm sure his place much be much more quiet and maybe a bit more... cozy, yes?" Mrs. Hudson smiles giving Grace a pointed look as she pulls back the drapes to the main window across the room.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, Detective Lestrade and I are old family friends and now co-workers, nothing more."

"Oh, but are you sure dear? He's such a lovely man," Mrs. Hudson beams before lowering her voice and whispering, "I know he's gotten himself divorced not all that long ago, but I've heard his wife was unfaithful to him. And with a P.E. teacher of all people. Can't really blame a man for leaving that."

"I respect, Greg, and he's a great man, really. I appreciate everything he's done for me and my family, but he's more of an older brother to me."

"Ah, yes, well I won't bother you for too much longer then. Let me show you around the flat a bit," Mrs. Hudson says walking around the flat. "Here's the living room and the kitchen. The laundry's right over there with that closet. Your room is over here and across is the door for the loo. I hope this is alright, I had to do quite a bit of cleaning to get it up to living standards."

"This is great, Mrs. Hudson, thanks again so much for doing this."

"Of course, dear, let me know if you need any help settling in. I can get the boys to help you move your bed into your room if you'd like."

"I'm okay, Mrs. Hudson. Greg is coming over with a moving van to drop some things over in about an hour. Thought I'd just hop on over to the grocery store quickly to grab a few things to stock the fridge before he arrives. But thank you for the offer."

"Ah, yes, Detective Lestrade is so reliable isn't he," she hints.

"Yes, he is Mrs. Hudson."

"Okay, okay, well I'll let you go on ahead, then. Here's your copy of the keys." Handing over a key labelled 221C, she makes her way to the doorway. "Feel free to drop by later. I make a great cuppa. That means "cup of tea", dear. But I'm not your housekeeper, so please keep the place clean, yes? I have enough trouble with those two upstairs. And say hello to Detective Lestrade for me!"

Grace waves Mrs. Hudson out with a smile before closing the door and looking around. This was going to be an interesting weekend.

* * *

_**221B - Later that night** _

Sherlock and John burst into 221B. Lestrade is sitting in Sherlock's chair, examining the pink suitcase on the table.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock yells at Lestrade. The room is full of policemen searching the flat. Decked in a rubber gloves and crime scene gear, they look under and around every corner of the room.

"Well I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid," Lestrade explains.

"You can't just break into my flat!"

"You can't withhold evidence, and I didn't break into your flat."

"Well what do you call this?"

"A drugs bust."

John laughs, "Oh, come on, seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"

"John…" Sherlock warns.

"Pretty sure, you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"John, you probably want to shut up now…"

"Yeah, but come on…" He looks at Sherlock, who has a warning look on his face. Shaking his head, John, astonished, yells, "No! You?"

"Shut up!" Turning to Lestrade, Sherlock huffs, "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No! Anderson's my sniffer dog."

Turning to look at Anderson, Sherlocks gives him a little wave, mockingly as the policeman continues to search the kitchen.

"What's he doing here? On a drugs bust?"

"I volunteered," Anderson states plainly, snapping his gloves. "We all did."

"A drugs bust?" The men turn to see Grace, who is standing in the doorway, not yet used to all the noise from upstairs in her new living situation.

"Ah, Grace. Sorry for the noise, I didn't want to bother you on your day off. But yes, this is a...drugs bust."

Sally Donovan turns, holding a beaker. "Are these human eyes?"

"Put them back," Sherlock demands.

"They were in the microwave."

"It's an experiment."

"Keep looking, guys," Lestrade instructs. Turning to Sherlock he says, "Or you could start helping me properly, and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish," Sherlock pouts.

"I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case! I'm letting you in, but you don't go off on your own - clear?"

"What, so you set up a pretend drugs bust, to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything."

"Why would they find anything?" Grace interrupts, brow furrowed and shooting a questioning look over to John. Meeting her gaze, John shrugs, shaking his head, frustrated at the drama of the situation.

Ignoring her, Sherlock stares intensely at Lestrade. "I'm clean."

"Is your flat? All of it?"

"I don't even smoke!" He pulls up his sleeve, showing the nicotine patches on his arm. Lestrade does the same showing similar patches.

"Neither do I! So let's work together. We've found Rachel."

"Wait, what?" Grace directs at Lestrade. "You didn't tell me you found Rachel."

"It's your day off. Go enjoy it or at least go unpack your flat and make it livable. You need a day off, you've been working since the minute you landed in London."

"No way, Greg, you should have called me in. This is my first case at Scotland Yard. I'm not going to miss any of it."

"Yes, yes, how nice and dedicated you are to your work. Now who is Rachel?" Sherlock asks again, annoyed at the interruption.

Rolling his eyes, Lestrade answers, "Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter. Why would she write her daughter's name, why?" Sherlock questions as he paces around the room.

"Never mind that, we found the case," Anderson reminds the room. "According to someone the murderer has the case - and here it is, in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!" Turning back to Lestrade, "You need to bring Rachel in, you need to question her. I need to question her!"

"She's dead."

"Excellent! How? When? Is there a connection? There has to be!"

"I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's still born daughter fourteen years ago."

"No. No, that's not right. Why would she do that?" Sherlock picks up the speed of his pacing struggling to put the emotional reasoning together.

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments," Anderson mocks. "Yeah, sociopath, seeing it now."

"She didn't think about her daughter, she scratched her name on the floor. She was dying, it took effort, it would've hurt. She was trying to tell us something!"

"You said the victims all took the poison themselves. Somehow he makes them take it. Maybe he ... I dunno, talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow," John suggests.

"Oh, but that was ages ago - why would she still be upset?"

John cringes.

"Not good?" Sherlock stops pacing to look at John questioningly.

"Bit not good, yeah."

"Yes, but listen!" Sherlock exclaims, picking up his pacing again. "If you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last seconds, what would you say."

"Please God let me live."

"Oh, use your imagination!"

"I don't have to." John says flatly.

"Yes, but if you were clever, if you were very clever... Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers. She was clever, and she's telling us something!"

Mrs. Hudson enters the flat. In the shadowed hallway beyond her someone else is standing

"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson explains.

"I didn't order a taxi, go away."

"Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?" she says worried.

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," John answers.

"Oh, but they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers."

"Shut up! Everybody shut up, I'm thinking, don't move, don't breathe, Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off!"

"What, my face is?" Anderson scoffs.

"Everybody quiet and still," Lestrade commands. "Anderson, turn your back"

"For God's sake…"

"Your back, now, please!" Anderson turns his back, furious and embarrassed.

Sherlock, pacing faster and faster, clutches his head. "Come on, come on!"

"What about your taxi…" Mrs. Hudson asks again.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yells before continuing, "Oh, she was clever. Clever, yes, I love her! She's cleverer than you lot dead! Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted in on him. When she got out that car, she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone to lead us to her killer! Rachel, don't you see? Rachel!" Sherlock turns to the other policemen, "Oh, look at you lot, you're all so vacant! What's it like, not being me, it must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?"

Sherlock grabs his laptop and opens his browser. "John, the luggage label, it had an email address on it."

" .uk," he reads aloud off the tag on the suitcase.

"I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means did her business on her phone. So it's a smartphone. It's email enabled, so there's a website for her account."

Sherlock logs into mephone's website. "The user name will be the email address," He begins typing rapidly, "And the password is…"

"Rachel," Grace answers.

"Yes, how very clever of you, after I basically spelled it entirely out. At least you can pay attention, unlike Anderson over there," he points his thumb over his shoulder to Anderson who has since turned around to look at the commotion with his arms crossed defensively.

"Look, you can't keep-" Anderson begins.

"Oh, shut up Anderson," he snaps. Peering over his shoulder to look at him he accuses, "And who told you you could turn back around? Turn away now, go on. You're slowing the investigation down."

Letting out a large huff, Anderson turns back around. "So we can read her emails - so what?"

"You know what, Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do more than read her emails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, and if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us right to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade argues.

"We know he didn't," John explains.

"Sherlock, dear this taxi driver!" Mrs. Hudson calls out again.

"Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He quips annoyed at the constant interruptions. Turning to Lestrade, he holds his laptop open to show the others. "Get some vehicles ready, get a helicopter, we need to move fast - that phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name!" Lestrade shouts, exasperated.

"It's a start! It narrows it down from anyone in London. It's the first proper lead we've had."

"Sherlock!" John yells out.

Sherlock turns to see John staring at the screen of the laptop. "Where is it? Where? Quickly!" He joins John at the screen and stares, frowning. "What?"

"It's here. It's in 221 Baker Street," John points to the graphic on the screen. A map of London, with a target symbol is hovering over Baker Street.

"But it can't be. How can it be here? How?"

"Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere," Grace suggests looking around the floor.

"And I didn't notice. Me? I didn't notice? No."

"Anyway, I texted it and he phoned back," John elaborates the missing piece to Sherlocks tirade.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim," Lestrade calls out to his team.

Sherlock freezes. Turning to the doorway, he looks at the man standing behind her. A shadow slants across him, concealing his face. The Taxi driver presses a button on the phone. Then turns and heads away down the stairs.

"Sherlock? You okay?" John asks.

Sherlock's mobile beeps. "What? Yes, yes," He replies distracted.

"Do you think you know where the phone is?" Grace asks his questiongly, tilting her head to look up at the curly-haired detective, glued to his spot.

Looking at his mobile, a message reads, "COME WITH ME."


	4. The Cabbie

** Chapter 4: The Cabbie **

_COME WITH ME._

Sherlock stares at the text, frozen to his spot by the laptop.

"So how can the phone be here?" John asks him.

"I don't know…" Sherlock replies, suddenly calm.

"John, you said you called the phone before, right? Do you think you could try it again? Maybe we'll hear the ringtone go off," Grace suggests.

"Good idea," Sherlock says, deadpan. As he speaks, he heads towards the door after the taxi driver.

"Okay…" Concerned that he suddenly changed from a flurry of energy to eerily calm and with no smart remark back at her suggestion, she prods, "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere. Fresh air, just popping out for a moment."

"You sure you're alright?" John asks worried.

But before he can get an answer, Sherlock is hurrying down the stairs. "I'm fine!" He calls behind him as he races out the door.

"So I know he's kind of eccentric, but did you think that was weird?" Grace asks, scanning the room to see if Lestrade was nearby to see the encounter. The Detective Inspector is across the room fielding complaints from Anderson about Sherlock's treatment towards him tonight.

"Yeah, something seems off. He got a message on his phone, then turned pale as a ghost" John replies and looks out the window to see Sherlock get inside the back of a taxi and drive away. "He's headed out in a taxi, too, but I thought he said he didn't order one."

The two share a worried look. Glancing at the screen, Grace notes, "Wait. The tracker for the phone - it's moving."

John peers over her shoulder to look at the screen. "Come on. Let's go."

The two of them head out, Grace shouting a quick, "We're heading out after Sherlock!" over her shoulder to Lestrade as he fields more concerns over Sherlock's state of mind from Sally.

* * *

Now on the street outside 221B, the two flag down a taxi. "Where to?" the cabbie calls back.

"We're following directions from a friend on our phone. We'll let you know where to turn," John explains. "We're in a bit of a hurry, though, if you don't mind".

"Sure thing, buddy."

Sliding into the backseat of the taxi, John and Grace take off after Sherlock, following the map of the device on their phones.

_Heading out from 221B. Seems the bust was a bust. Where are you? - Greg_

Looking down at her phone, Grace sees a brightly lit screen with a text from Lestrade.

_John and I are in a taxi around east London. Looks like we're nearing on college town. - Grace_

_Did you find Sherlock yet? - Greg_

_Not yet, but the tracker stopped nearby, so we should catch up with him soon. - Grace_

_What are your coordinates? I'm about to leave now. - Greg_

Sending over the address to Lestrade, he responds:

_Okay. Be careful and stick by John. Looks like I'm about 20 minutes out, so hold tight until then - Greg_

Looking up from her phone and out the window, she points to the upcoming buildings.

"This is it," she says, turning to John. "The tracker stopped moving right outside these buildings up ahead."

"Stop the taxi, please!" John yells to the driver up front. The taxi slows down to a stop outside two identical, tall college buildings. The tracker stopped on this street, but the signal has been lost in the building itself.

John pays the driver quickly. "We need to head up now. This doesn't feel right."

"But which building is it? The tracker just stopped here".

"Let's split up. You take the right building, I'll take the left," John directs, sensing danger in the situation and going into military mode. The two take off into opposite buildings, running at top speed.

Rushing into the building on the right, she pushes the elevator button rapidly with no luck.

"Damn it, out of order," she curses under her breath, looking for the entrance to the stairs. Down at the end of the hall, she finds the stairs and begins running up, looking into each of the classrooms quickly while shouting for Sherlock.

Not seeing sight of Sherlock anywhere, she stops at the second to top floor and looks outside the window toward the other building. She makes eye contact with John who is also trying to catch his breath, as he waves her down and makes a questioning gesture. Grace shakes her head vigorously, miming to him that she hasn't found any sign of Sherlock yet either.

Suddenly, she sees John lift his head to stare through the window on the top floor of her building, his eyes going wide before he burst into a sprint up the last flight of stairs. Following his lead, she runs up the stairs and comes across the last classroom.

She peers through the frosted glass of the classroom door, trying to make out who, if anyone was in the room. Two shadowy figures are standing inside arguing with each other and one pulls out a gun.

"You can take a 50-50 chance, or I can shoot you through the head. Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for that option," a voice she doesn't recognize threatens.

"I'll have the gun please," another voice says, who she recognizes as Sherlock.

Her heart almost jumps out of her throat as she realizes Sherlock is the one with the gun pointed to him and not the other way around. She pushes through the doors, and yells out, "Scotland Yard! Stay where you are!"

The two men turn to look at the woman in the doorway holding her badge in front of her.

"Who are you?" the unidentified man asks.

"This is Detective White. Detective White, you have a horrible habit of interrupting. I'm in the middle of a conversation with this man," Sherlock says dryly.

"A conversation? Did you not notice the gun pointed at you, Sherlock?"

"Would you like to show her, or shall I?" Sherlock turns his attention to the cabbie, waving his hand over to Grace.

The taxi driver takes the gun from the table, levels it at Grace and pulls the trigger. A lighter flame pops out of the end.

"What?"

"I know a real gun when I see one. And I would have thought you would too, Detective."

"Don't worry, sweetie, none of the others knew either," the cabbie grins sleazily eyeing her up and down. "You're a pretty one, though, aren't you?"

"Enough with the disgusting leering. You're really trying to stick yourself in the gross old man box, aren't you?" Sherlock jeers as the cabbie turns his attention back to Sherlock. "Well, this has been most interesting. I look forward to your court case. Please tell me you brought your handcuffs, Detective White," Sherlock rants, walking over to the exit.

"I was in a bit of a rush…"

Sherlock sighs. "Is this the best George can send for me?"

"George?"

"Lestrade."

"His name is Greg."

"Yes, whatever. Either way, give him a call will you, we need a real police officer. One who carries basic police items, like handcuffs."

"Before you go on calling anyone...did you figure it out? Which one's the good bottle," the cabbie asks.

"Of course. Child's play."

"Which one, then? Which one would you have taken. Just so I know if I could have beaten you."

Grace looks to the table between the two men and sees two vials, one in front of the taxi driver and one in front of where Sherlock was once standing, both presumably with poisonous pills inside. Looking out the window to the building across from them she sees John who has been trying to grab her attention since she entered the room. She lifts her hand to tell John to pause as she watches the scene in front of her unfold.

"Come on. Play the game."

Sherlock slowly crosses back to the table and points to the bottle in front of the taxi driver.

"Oh! Interesting!" He reaches for the bottle he placed in front of Sherlock and uncaps it, removing the pill. "What do you think? Shall we?"

Sherlock reaches for the bottle, looking at it in his hand, tempted.

"Sherlock, you don't need to do this," Grace says.

"Really, what do you think, Sherlock? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough? Are you really sure? Bet your life?" the cabbie continues to goad him, daring him to take the pill.

Sherlock gives him a look, considering it.

"Sherlock, don't," Grace warns walking toward him, her hand reaching out.

Before she reaches him, the cabbie pulls her arm back sharply. "Stay in your place, little one, let the man make his decision."

Sherlock stands there, staring at the pill. The cabbie looks up at him, smiling and malevolent as Sherlock twists open the bottle.


	5. The Shot

**Chapter 5: The Shot**

"Well? Shall we play? For real, shall we? You get bored, I know you do - a man like you, so clever. But what's the point in being clever if you can't prove it."

"Let me go, _now_ , " Grace struggles against the cabbie still holding her arm behind her back.

"Oh, calm down now. We're just playing a game. Let the boys play now," the cabbie says into her ear, restraining her back even tighter.

Sherlock takes the pill out of the bottle and holds it up to the light, examining it.

"Oh, stop it, you can't see poison. You just wanted to get one step closer, didn't you? Still the addict!"

Sherlock glances at him, contemplating how to proceed.

"But this is what you're really addicted to, isn't it? This is the only fix that works. You'll do anything, anything at all - not to be bored."

Sherlock stares at the pill, as his hand starts to raise the pill.

"Sherlock…" Grace pleas again, eyes frantically search for John's in the building across from them.

Watching horrified, John screams out, and Grace can make out his lips yelling, "Sherlock!", slamming his fists against the window panes unable to do anything.

"You're not bored now, are you?" Grace's attention snaps back to the cabbie detaining her. "And isn't it good?" he whispers into her ear.

Looking back to John with wide eyes, she sees him pacing the room opposite to them before turning back to the window and motioning frantically for her to duck. Heart racing, Grace bends forward to duck as far as she can with the cabbie holding her arm back. A loud crack rings through the air, and the window suddenly explodes with shattered glass. Grace and the cabbie fall to the ground.

Sherlock staggers back in shock, the pill falling from his hand. Looking to the broken window, he sees an empty building across from them. Turning to the taxi driver and Grace, he hurries over.

The cabbie's clutching at his chest, blood spurting, choking. Grace, white shirt and left cheek covered in a spray of blood scrambles up and wipes her face.

"Were you hit?" Sherlock frantically looks over her, finding no physical injuries.

"I'm okay…" her voice is shaky, still in shock before looking back to the taxi driver gasping on the floor.

Sherlock leaps past him, going straight to the pills and the bottles that are now scattered on the floor. He grabs them and examines them, but there's no way to tell them apart.

He goes to the dying man, shoving the pill bottles in his face, crazed, "Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?"

The taxi driver just looks up at him, the tiniest hint of a smile forming, refusing to reply.

Sherlock furiously throws the pill bottle to the ground, then pauses. His anger is controlled now. Walking calmly over to him, he stands over the dying man, a cold expression on his face.

"Ok then. Tell me this. Your sponsor - who is it?"

The taxi driver, in agony, shakes his head.

"The one who told you about me. My fan. I want a name."

"No…"

Sherlock calmly, coldly places a foot on him, near his wound. "You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name." He presses down harder. "A name! Now!"

The taxi driver screams in pain. Grace's breathing heavier now, turning to look away from the interrogation. Sherlock's terrifying now, almost demonic.

"Name him!"

One word is ripped from the taxi driver: "Moriarty!". His head falls to the side as he succumbs to his wounds.

Blue lights pass through the window from outside, illuminating Sherlock's face. The sound of sirens draws Grace over to the window to look outside.

The area is cordoned off, police vehicles everywhere. Grace sees Lestrade exiting a car to look up at the building above. He makes eye contact with her, still visibly shaken, and runs full speed through the entrance. Less than a minute later, he bursts through the door to find Grace, still splattered in blood, and Sherlock standing over a dead body.

"Grace…" he rushes to her side to check her for injuries. "Are you okay? What happened?"

She shakes her head silently, then burrows her face into the Detective Inspector's shoulder, letting out a sob she didn't realize she was holding in. Lestrade turns to look at Sherlock, who is staring off into space, before watching the man walk silently out the door, the sound of retreating footsteps ringing in the air.

* * *

Outside the college building, inside the police lines, Sherlock sits on the back steps of an ambulance with a blanket around his shoulders.

"Why do I have this blanket?" Sherlock asks Lestrade as he ducks under the police tape. "They keep putting a blanket on me."

"It's for shock, Sherlock. Though, it seems like Grace should be the one in the blanket, not you."

"Then give this to her, I don't need it." Sherlock throws the blanket at Lestrade, striding off.

"Wait a second, Sherlock." Lestrade walks after him, stepping in his path. "What happened exactly in there? We find you standing over a dead body, perfect undisturbed, with Grace covered in what I can only assume is the dead man's blood, since she doesn't seem to be harmed. Physically, anyway."

"Your detective came to a crime scene unarmed and put herself in the line of fire. Maybe, next time, send someone who knows how to do their job," Sherlock chastises. "If the shooter in the building across from us wasn't there, she could have found herself the one on the floor instead."

"If you had just told us where you were going instead of making her and John chase you around, she could have been better prepared, Sherlock. You can't go running around wherever you like in the middle of an investigation like this."

"Wait. Grace and John followed me?"

"Yeah, that's what she texted me about 20 minutes before we arrived. You didn't see him?"

"No, he wasn't there. It was just Grace."

"Hmm… weird, maybe he was searching one of the other floors of the building. I'll have to go ask Grace…"

"No matter that," Sherlock cuts him off. "We need to go after the shooter."

"But we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that…" Sherlock mulls.

Wearily, Lestrade replies, "Okay, fine." He pulls out his notebook.

"The bullet they just dug out the wall was from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon - that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksmen, a fighter - his hand couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire 'til I was in immediate danger, though. So, strong moral principles. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel…" Sherlocks abruptly stops, making eye contact with John who has walked up to the edge of the scene. "Actually, you know what - ignore me."

"I'm sorry?"

"Ignore all that. It's the shock talking!" Sherlock snatches back the blanket and puts it over his shoulder, walking over to John.

"Where are you going?"

"Just need to...discuss the rent."

"I still have questions for you."

"What, now? I'm in shock. Look, I've got a blanket. Go and find Detective White and bother her," Sherlock pauses, realizing Grace may be aware of the shooter's identity as well. "Actually, leave her alone, Lestrade. Your pestering is not good for the shock. She may just keel over if you do that."

"Sherlock…"

"And I did just catch a serial killer for you. More or less."

"Okay. We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go."

Sherlock doesn't wait around to hear anything else. Lestrade watches him go for a moment, smiles knowingly and walks away.

Sherlock joins John on the outskirts of the crime scene.

"Sergeant Donovan's been explaining about everything. The two pills - dreadful business, dreadful," John laments.

Sherlock lowers his voice to a whisper, standing close to John, "Good shot."

"Yeah, it must have been. Through that window…"

"Well, you'd know," Sherlock gives John a knowing look. John gives a little smile of acknowledgment. "We'll need to get the powder burns out your finger. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case. Are you all right?"

John, looking around, replies, "Course I'm alright."

"You have just killed a man."

"Yeah. True. But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock gives a little laugh, "Yeah, that's true. A very bad cabbie. You should've seen the route we took here."

Now they're both giggling like schoolboys.

"Stop it, we can't giggle. It's a bloody crime scene, stop," John tries to reprimand Sherlock but can't but laugh himself.

"Don't blame me. You shot him!"

"You could maybe keep your voice down a bit." He says, chuckling again. John notices Sally Donovan a little distance away, staring at them with Grace, now in a clear shirt and a blanket around her shoulders."

"Sorry," He calls out. "Sorry, just...nerves."

"Yes, sorry," Sherlock calls over and Sally moves on, but not before putting a reassuring hand on Grace's shoulder. Grace nods to Sally then moves to join John and Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes," she nods to the men.

"Grace, thank God you're okay," John smiles. "I'm sorry I couldn't stay after. I had to...deal with something." He's unsure how a member of Scotland Yard is going to feel about him killing the cabbie before he could be taken in for questioning.

"In the Thames?"

"Um, yes, is that...a problem?" John rubs the back of his head nervously.

"Good," she replies, crossing the space in between them to throw her arms around him in a hug. "Thank you, John."

"Of course," he wraps his arms around her back, surprised. "I have to say, I'm a little surprised…"

"You saved my life, John. Sherlock's, too. Let's not overcomplicate things," she says pulling back. "As far as I'm concerned, you were checking the floor of classrooms under me, and that's all I know."

"Thank you," John smiles.

"It's okay, we're even," Grace chuckles, but turns to Sherlock and her smile fades. "You were going to take the damn pill, weren't you?"

"Course I wasn't. Playing for time. Knew you and John would show up,"

"No, you didn't. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? Risking your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot," she says pushing back his shoulder. "A stupidly brilliant idiot."

Sherlock looks at her for a moment, affronted, and before a small smile appears on his lips for just a second before dropping back into a scowl."

"Yes, well, I am brilliant," he says haughtily. Turning to John, he asks, "Dinner?"

"Starving," he turns to Grace. "Hungry?"

"Not really in the mood for food."

"Good," Sherlock interrupts. "Shall we John?"

"I could use a drink though," she interrupts.

Sighing, Sherlock turns to John who gives him a look, conveying with his eyes not to be rude.

"Please, do come with us, Grace. I could use a beer or three myself," John smiles.

Sherlock starts leading the way. "There's a good Chinese, end of Baker Street - stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

But John isn't listening. He's seen someone ahead of them walking towards them.

"Sherlock, that's him. That's the guy I was talking about…" John says, gesturing over to a well-dressed, thin man making his way over to them.

"Who's that?" Grace asks, never having seen the mysterious and dangerous looking man before.

" I know exactly who that is," Sherlock explains, starting towards the man.

"So! Another case cracked. How very public spirited of you. Though that's never really ever your motivation, is it?" the man speaks.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks him, patience visibly wearing thin.

"As ever...I am concerned about you," the man's voice softens.

"Yes. I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

"Always so aggressive. Does it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no."

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us - it's simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy."

"What?" John and Grace interject in unison, both surprised, but John most of all.

"I upset her? Me? It wasn't me who upset her, Mycroft."

"No, sorry, wait, wait - Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John asks, incredulous.

"Mother. Our Mother," Sherlock explains dryly. "This is my brother, Mycroft." He glances back at Mycroft, "Are you putting on weight?"

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft replies, gloating slightly.

"He's your brother?" John asks, still shocked.

"Of course he's my brother."

"He's not... I dunno. Some kind of...criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough," Sherlock answers waving his hand in the air.

"Oh for goodness sake! I occupy a minor post in the British Government," Mycroft explains.

"He is the British Government. When he's not too busy being the British Secret Service. And the CIA on a freelance basis," Sherlock contradicts. "Good evening, Mycroft - try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic."

Sherlock turns on his heel and starts stalking away.

"So when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned about him," John asks Mycroft.

"Of course, yes, he is my brother."

"It actually is a childish feud," John says, disbelief at the situation waning.

"Oh, he's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yes. No. God, no! Anyway, I'd better, um…" he trails off glancing back at Sherlock then to Grace. "Oh, uh, yes. Mycroft, this is Detective Grace White of Scotland Yard. She was assisting in the investigation tonight."

"Hello, Detective White. I assume we'll be seeing more of each other," Mycroft holds out one hand.

Meeting his hand, Grace replies, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Yes, well I suppose I ought to ask you as well. What is your acquaintance to my dear brother?"

"I just met Sherlock, yesterday. We've been working on this case together."

"I see, same as Dr. Watson then. I supposed my dear brother has a weird way of picking up interesting characters in his adventures," he waves in the direction of John. "Are you moving in with them as well, then? Seems my brother has been trying to compile a collection of strangers to cohabitate with."

"Well, um, not exactly…" Grace trails off. "I am renting the place under them though."

"Interesting." Mycroft muses. "Well, I don't suppose you're in need of any extra money, are you?"

"And that's where we leave," John interrupts, pulling Grace's arm towards him. "It's been good seeing you again, Mycroft. I'm sure we'll be seeing you later."

"Yes, of course. Very soon. Good night, Dr. Watson. Detective White."

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," Grace nods before jogging to catch up with John who has already started to walk away.

"So….Dim-Sum," John says, caught up to Sherlock.

"I can always predict the fortune cookies," Sherlock brags.

"No you can't," John replies.

"I nearly can. You did get shot though?"

"I'm sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah. In the shoulder."

"The shoulder. I thought so."

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess. And you-" Sherlock turns to look at Grace who has joined them next to John. "For a detective, you had a surprising reaction to a simple gunshot."

"Sherlock…" John warns.

"What?"

"She was right next to the guy. She got hit with his blood."

Grace flinches at the memory, almost forgotten for a second.

"No, it's more than that. Your reaction wasn't just one of fear for one's life. It's one of PTSD," he deduces. "Except, unlike John, the killing doesn't make your symptoms go away, it makes them worse."

Grace looks away, trying not to meet his eye.

"You're not a soldier," he continues. "Not to mention that fact that it is statistically less likely for you to have been one, but a soldier would never run into combat, unarmed. No - you read more like the victim. Hyperventilating, unable to look at the body on the ground, or my interrogation."

"You can read everyone, can't you, Mr. Holmes? What do you read from me?"

"Sherlock...this is not the right time to show off," John warns again, fruitlessly.

"She asked, John. Let me give the woman what she wants," he scolds before continuing, "Detective Grace White. American, from New York, but not born there. About 26 years of age. Last name suspiciously caucasian, but your appearance clearly shows East Asian, Korean to be more specific. Adopted by a Mr. and Mrs. White and brought back to America at a very young age, given you have no discernible accent or English-impediment. Desperate to fit in with the Whites in more ways than one, indicated by the boxed blonde-dyed hair with absolutely no sign of a natural color on your head. Am I right so far?"

"Almost. I'm a natural blonde," she smiles jokingly. "But I don't have a New York accent. How did you know I lived there?"

"The way you hail a taxi screams 'big city' - New York seemed plausible."

"Okay...well, yes, I was born in South Korea, but my parents adopted me and brought me back to America when I was three. What else?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. You're close to him given the familiarity of speech and the way you collapsed into his shoulder after the shooting upstairs. But it's not a romantic relationship, but more of a familial one. No relation, but there's history, most likely a family friend."

"Greg studied under my father before he left London to go to America. My father, Arthur, worked for Scotland Yard, as well."

"Father: British, Mother: American, then. Keen on adopting in 'exotic' countries. Likely from your disposition and educational history, they were well off financially. Wouldn't have stopped at one child. Children are like cars for people like that - they need at least one each."

"How did you know what school I went to?"

"The lanyard holding your flat key from earlier had a 'PENN' pin on it. University of Pennsylvania. Master's in Criminology?" Grace nods in confirmation. "Continuing, this means you likely have a brother. Of course, it's a brother and not a sister because why adopt another daughter when they already have one? And the way you appear more comfortable conversing with men on your team and not women, you likely grew up surrounded by other men, perhaps idolizing your father due to an untimely death or abandonment from your mother. Now, your brother is likely not Korean, nor Asian at all, because again, why adopt more of the same when you have your choice of all the children in the world? Given that they adopted an Asian child first, they probably did not care to adopt within their own race. The next most popular place for rich, white Americans to adopt? Africa, of course, popularized by Angelina Jolie after her marriage to Brad Pitt. But given that your mother abandoned you early in your life leading to an adult issue developing relationships with females, she must have left you when you were very young, under 10 years old. Meaning your African brother was the last child to be adopted, since your father wouldn't adopt another child without your mother."

"My mother, Evelyn, passed away from breast cancer when I was 8. My brother's name is Oliver, but he was born Amadi."

"I'm right then, of course." Sherlock gloats, "Now this brings us to you in London. Why would you leave for another country and leave behind the father you so idolized to work at the job he left behind? You wouldn't. You left because there was nothing left for you to leave. Your father died not long ago, seeing as the pain still visibly shows on your face at mention of him and, given you so rapidly moved to London, it was likely not of natural causes. No, instead it was too painful to stay there because your father was killed, and given you are following in his footsteps in Scotland Yard, he didn't kill himself, but was instead killed by someone else. You're here to finish what he couldn't in London."

Taking a deep breath and avoiding eye contact, Grace replies, "That's correct, Mr. Holmes. You never cease to amaze me."

"Yes, well, it was all really quite obvious. If that has sated your curiosity, I do believe we have more important things to focus on," Sherlock changes the subject with a devilish smile.

"What are you so happy about?" John asks.

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

* * *

Away from them, Mycroft stands watching the three leave.

"Sir?" Andrea has opened the car door open for him.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow. Could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever. The woman - I'm not sure what to make of her, yet. She seems rather ordinary on the surface, but there's something there. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade 3 active."

Andrea, looking up from her Blackberry, asks, "Sorry, sir, whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson and Detective White," he answers before turning back to enter through the open car door and driving away.


End file.
